


There is Nothing Can Console Me...

by JQ (musicmillennia)



Series: Fathoms Below [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (as much as they can anyway), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Coffee Shops, Crack Ending, Explosions, Fluff, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, Selkies, Singing, Sirens, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6009658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/JQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...but watching yachts explode.</p><p>(how a siren and a selkie meet in a coffee shop, and things get—interesting.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is Nothing Can Console Me...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nordstrom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nordstrom/gifts).



> Well done nordstr0m for regaining your good health! Hope you enjoy your Stay Well present! Your present which got so out of hand I don't even know what happened to it.
> 
> I mean, TECHNICALLY there's a terrible amount of violence, but I don't go into that much detail about it? If you think the rating should be changed, lemme know.

Ever since his mother taught him how to shed his skin and walk on land, Mick has taken to human legs more than fins. It's not that he finds land creatures more interesting, nor that he finds his birthplace boring.

It's the fire.

Mick saw fire once, and only once, beneath the surface. He was just a cub then, barely out of his mother's womb. Together with her, he dove under the waves, watching how she hunted. Even for his kind, he was especially adept at visual learning. Some human scientists were working nearby; they lit a torch underwater.

As soon as the flame lit, Mick was entranced. Swimming away from his mother, he peered, amazed, at the bright, glorious beacon.

That's when he knew: this was what beauty looked like. What life, what wonder and joy looked like. From that moment, Mick's horizons evolved and expanded.

One of his cousins dwelt mostly on the surface too. She tossed him some clothes once his skin was shed and packed. "Have fun," she said.

That was such a long time ago, Mick doesn't even remember her name. He's had plenty of cousins since then. (No siblings, though. He didn't bother asking his mother why.)

Now and again he'll return to sea for a few days. Can't help what he is, after all. Rest of the time, he tries to see how many things he can burn. Sometimes he gets caught, but never stays that way.

Farther and farther inland he travels, as much as he dares. It's become a little game: how far can he go before the itching under his skin becomes unbearable? It sets him on edge, which makes it even more fun.

Central City's not too bad. Water’s polluted and disgusting, so it feels landlocked to him. Judging by the smell of sea salt in the air, though, Mick knows he can give himself another push. If there's at least one other creature from his homeland around here, he hasn't reached a new level yet.

Still. Central City's not too bad.

Take Jitters, for example. They're real good with making coffee piping hot. Burns Mick's tongue in all the right ways. He heads there today, skin tucked into his messenger bag, lighter in his jacket pocket.

He reaches into a side pocket for the money he got from a job he pulled, one where he got to burn stuff and punch people's faces in (in other words, the best kind of job). Mick's arrived on schedule, so Chelsea Purroll is working her morning shift. She's a fairy who thrives on heat, doesn't matter what kind: a rousing debate, bright sunshine, fire itself, and of course, boiling hot coffee.

Soon as she sees him walk in, her wings give a twitch. (She's a swallowtail butterfly, if memory serves.) No matter how civil Mick is with her, she clearly doesn't trust him.  
Mick's not bothered. She doesn't have to like him to make her stunning coffee. Although, if Chelsea was so inclined, Mick could see a friendly acquaintanceship.

Not what's important right now, obviously.

"The usual?" Chelsea asks curtly. Mick nods, already on his way to his usual corner table.

Only to find a phone sitting there. Mick takes his seat with a frown, pulling his bag to his lap. Who leaves their phone just lyin' out there in the open?

Doesn't look too expensive. A modest grey flip phone, front screen dim. However, that key chain looks interesting...is that real gold?

Mick snorts, removing the clip and pocketing it. Someone leaves a trinket like that in a coffee shop deserves to get robbed. Out of curiosity, Mick flips open the phone itself. Background's a generic gold, nothing interesting. Contacts are few, and all but one are take out places.

Well, well. Who is Lenny?

"Excuse me."

Mick doesn't have to smell this newcomer to know he, or his kin, is the source of the sea salt lingering in the air. When you hear a siren's voice, you don't need more proof. Mick's only grateful he's got enough immunity not to be enraptured. Unless this one actively tries, which Mick doesn't think he will.

He turns to look, because sirens always, always, look as beautiful as they sound. This one's no different: jeans, combat boots, dark shirt under a blue jacket. Great white wings edged with brown, meticulously preened and tucked against his back. Eyes as blue as a cloudless winter sky, with a falcon's gaze.

"That's my sister's phone," says the siren. Those eyes narrow. "It also had a gold chain. I suggest you return both to me."

Scratch that. This one's got a spark in 'im; he might actively try.

Mick's veins ignite. He takes the chain back out, but makes no move to return it. Instead, he dangles it from his fingers, smirking.

"And why would your sister leave this little beauty behind?" he asks, testing the waters.

A ripple, almost invisible, through the wings. Fun, fun, fun.

Mick's lips pull back in a goading sneer. "She hasn't been inland too long, has she? Doesn't know how to conduct herself."

Chelsea interrupts, placing Mick's coffee in front of him. "Is there a problem here, boys?" she asks, peering at them both.

The siren pulls his face into a polite smile. "Everything is fine, ma'am," he says, a song underlying every word, lilting through every ear.

Damn, he's powerful. Mick feels that, feels his mind cloud with rapture, and he's not even the target.

Yeah, Chelsea don't stand a chance. The fairy actually giggles, flushing with pleasure. This siren could probably sing her a song about murdering everyone in Jitters and she'd do it.

Mick'd love it if he did.

"Why don't you go back to work?" the siren adds, "I would love a free iced coffee."

Chelsea scampers off like an eager puppy.

Mick shakes off the haze, stroking his skin under the bag flap as an anchor. He takes a sip of his coffee with his free hand, chuckling into his cup.

"I'm guessin' you're Lenny then."

The siren glares, wings flaring an inch in warning. Yep, definitely Lenny.

"I'll give you the phone back. No use to me anyway. But this little beauty," Mick brings the sister's key chain to eye level with a flourish, "I think I'll keep. Your sister's gotta learn her lesson somehow."

A pause. Lenny's head tilts.

"What's your name?"

Mick takes another long sip. "Mick Rory, Lenny."

"If," Lenny snaps, "you don't want me to call you Micky, you will call me either by my surname, Snart, or Len."

Mick pockets the key chain. "Sir yes sir," he smirks. "Why don't you take a seat, Snart?"

Len's eyes flick to the floor, then back to Mick. He takes a seat. Chelsea gives him the iced coffee; evidently she's come to her senses, because she does not look happy. Nonetheless, she does the smart thing and walks away instead of risking another song. The siren doesn't spare her a single glance.

"So," Len says, holding his cup to his lips, "Mick. What brings you so far from the sea?"

"Could ask you the same question."

“You could.”

A beat of silence. Mick scoffs, laughing. Len’s eyes brighten a degree.

“It's gotta be a good answer though,” the selkie points out, “‘cause your mind’s got the best job in the world. Sittin’ on rocks and killing people with the Titanic theme.”

Len raises an eyebrow at that. Unfortunately, he doesn't go further than that. “Yet your kind tend to stay warm in their blubber. Takes a lot to lure you up here.”

“Guess so.”

They sit for a minute at an impasse, quietly drinking their coffee. Mick never thought he’d have this much fun yammering on and on with someone.

Ah, what the fuck. He’ll tell him, if nothing else than for giving him an interesting morning.

“I like you, Snart,” he smirks, “you got this fire in your eyes.”

Clever bird he's revealing himself to be, Len perks up at just the right word. “You like fire, Mick?” Mick bares his teeth in answer. “Not much fire to be had underwater.”

“No.”

Len seems to consider him. He seems to find what he’s looking for, because he looks out the window and says, “The surface offers many new things, I suppose.”

An invitation, and—more than likely—a test. Mick doesn’t have much time to think of a correct response; swallowing the last bit of his coffee can only get him so much time. He decides to risk a shot with the reason many creatures wander from their homes. Hopefully in this one aspect, Len won’t be interesting.

He nods. “I come up here, I can burn stuff anytime I want. Nobody but the cops know my face; they’re keepin’ me under wraps ‘cause they don’t know what I am yet. Gives me a chance to run from the fucking boring life I had down there.” A spark. Success. “Question is…” Mick leans forward on his elbows, “what’re you running from?”

Len’s feathers rustle. “Maybe you’ll find out one day, Mick.”

“That a promise?”

“Think of it as an invitation.” Len downs the last of his coffee and stands. “I’d keep my sister’s gold close. She hates to have her treasure stolen.”

Mick watches him walk away with a grin.

* * *

That’s how they started. About two days after their first meeting, Mick walks into Jitters to find Len already sitting at his table, iced coffee in hand. His nostrils flare slightly as the selkie’s scent reaches him, prompting him to turn around and lower his wings.

Mick barely remembers to signal to Chelsea on his way over.

“That’s my seat,” he grunts.

“Oh is it?” Len smirks, “I must’ve forgot.”

Of course he makes no move to switch. Mick snorts and slides into the other seat.

He shrugs, “Thought you’d like this one better’s all. Can see the whole place from here.”

Len stretches his wings as one would their arms, nearly taking out a surprised customer. “Thought I’d enjoy a change. Even we need them now and then.”

Wait a minute.

Is this another test?

Just to be sure, Mick casts a glance about the place with affected calm. He’s got the guy pegged in an instant; the woman takes a couple seconds. She’s good at hiding, what with her wings pinned beneath her clothes (he winces internally. Never had wings, but that just sounds painful).

Chelsea brings his coffee. Before taking his first sip, he says, “Didn’t realize I had a new job.”

Len almost looks like he’s smiling. Almost. “Tell me, Mick: which is the ally?”

Oo. Never had someone test his intelligence before—people take one look at him and decide he’s only good for muscle.

Shame it’s not a hard question. “You let me take your sister’s key chain, but you care for her no question. So it’s the guy.”

Len’s right wing gives a telltale twitch. He’s got superb reflex control, so Mick takes that as a compliment.

“You think the woman is my sister?” Len asks, as if the very thought is ridiculous.

Mick refuses to be intimidated by this pretty boy. Confidence not wavering, he makes sure to take a long, boiling sip before reciting: “Family resemblance’s hard to miss when you know what you’re looking for. In your case, you sit the same way and have similar noses. She pin her wings like that all the time?” Tension in the jaw. “Wonder how that happened. So what d’you want me to do?” Mick grins, “Set ‘im on fire?”

Last thing he expects is for the answer to be, “I wish you would.”

The guy’s easy to snatch and burn in an alley. Mick breathes it all in—the scents, the sight, the muffled screams. He finishes his coffee around the time those screams stop.

Len approaches him, wing draped subtly around his sister’s back. Mick understands why; getting a closer look at her reveals how pale and stiff she is.

“My sister and I must return to the sea for a while,” Len tells him, “now that our friend is out of the way, we plan to leave tonight.”

Mick flicks his lighter on and off. “What a coincidence,” he rasps, still deeply affected by the flames, “so am I.”

The sister smiles. Wan as it is, it’s beautiful. “Why don’t we leave together? If you’re heading for Coast City, anyway.”

Mick’s heard of that spot. He shrugs a shoulder, “My favorite place.”

* * *

Mick starts running with them. Len’s got a sharp head on his shoulders, and Lisa’s even more powerful than her brother when it comes to song. Add Mick’s muscle, and you’ve got a pretty good team.

They pull jobs on the surface for over a year. Mick and Len butt heads more often than not, a mix of fucking irritating and fucking fun. Plus a lot of money lands in their laps. All around it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.

But Mick isn’t allowed to get ready for a dive with them. Every time they’re forced to return to the sea, he meets them at the base of Arrowhead Point, Coast City, on the rocks most bombarded by chaotic waves. He’s accepted this.

Until one day in late June, he burns an entire warehouse down to rescue both of them from one of their many enemies. Nothing out of the ordinary, but he finds Len half-dead. Then everyone in the warehouse die.

He removes the restraint around Lisa’s vocal chords and carries Len to the car. Len wakes to find himself breathing seawater, Mick having sped to the nearest shore and dunked his head.

Next time, before preparing for a dive, Len motions for Mick to follow him and Lisa.

* * *

Together, the three of them walk from the seaside house Lisa had her brother get for her up to the top of Arrowhead Point. There’s a restless tension in all of them, though Mick’s a little more at ease, skin flung over his shoulder. He can’t feel the air currents as acutely as his friends.

(Friends?

Yeah. Mick likes that.)

No one dares to brave the jump from Arrowhead Point. The wind is an absolute bitch and the rocks below could cut someone clear in half from that height. Naturally, Mick’s always wanted to try it.

Almost the instant Lisa reaches the edge of the cliff, she rips off her boots, jeans, and panties. An awful creaking noise groans from her back, like bones cracking. Len’s fists clench at his sides; he only removes his boots and socks.

“Lenny,” she murmurs. Mick carefully turns to pulling his own skin from his bag; he knows when he’s not wanted.

Behind him, Lenny removes Lisa’s jacket with careful fingers, going as fast as he dares. He does the same with her shirt, gently raising her arms and trying not to react when she hisses in pain.

Len takes a deep breath before peeling the black leather underguard off, knowing what he’ll see will be worse than he imagined.

It is.

He swallows bile as he takes in the blood and pus leaking from his sister’s golden brown wings. The feathers have become matted with them, and bones are clearly starting to become deformed from the tight straps. She hasn’t been on the surface two months; if this is the damage caused in such a small interval, then Len was right to bring the pyromaniac along.

Lisa slaps her hand over her mouth, a whimper escaping through her fingers as Len does his best to undo the straps without causing further damage. In a great whoosh, Lisa’s wings snap free. She can’t stop herself from crying out when the bones crack and more skin breaks open.

Bare chest heaving, Lisa stumbles under the agony. She’s trying to regain composure because Mick is standing right behind them. Len tosses the straps and leather before encompassing her shivering frame with his larger wings.

“I’ll take you down,” he tells her.

“Don’t you dare,” she snarls through grit teeth.

Len nods to Mick and glides her to their landing spot.

“Jerk,” she pants.

“Trainwreck.”

Suddenly, a black shape leaps from above them. A giant seal, shouting an excited cry, flings itself off the cliff, colliding against the water with a mighty splash.

Through her pain, Lisa starts laughing. Their friend is a good one.

(Friend?

Yeah. They like that.)

* * *

Yes, Mick and Len do kiss (and then some). It happens that very night, actually, when Lisa returns to the cliff and finds her straps and leather guard burning in front of Mick.

She screeches, wings snapping into a battle stance. But Mick, he just shrugs and says, “Whoops.”

Lisa flies off instead of walking back with them. She’ll be pissed for a while, Mick figures. Worth it, though.

Len kisses him around the halfway point.

“Was wonderin’ when you were gonna grow a pair, Lenny.”

Len bites his tongue.

* * *

 

All of that convalesces to this moment: rocks under Arrowhead Point, Valentine’s Day, 2016. Mick’s head plops on Len’s lap, enjoying the warm insulation provided by his mate’s wings. Apparently, Lenny has a surprise for him. He loves surprises as much as Len hates them.

Len checks his watch. “Ninety seconds.”

Until what? Of course he doesn’t say. At least Mick can enjoy the siren’s fingers running across his back.

Fifty seconds. Mick’s flipper pats restlessly against the rock they’re resting on. There’s a lot of boat traffic today, a bunch of people taking their sweethearts for a ride. A few yachts run back and forth, filled with jubilant shouts and loud music.

Forty. “Those two yachts, Mick.” Mick nods. “The one on the left, very originally named Olympus belongs to a man named Gregory Phillips. Unconvicted pedophile and rapist, comes from old money. The other one is American Pride. Ironically, Phillips’ best friend Ryan Walsh is a known homophobic son of a bitch. Helped Phillips get exonerated, taped a few of those poor kids and his friend without remorse. They hold parties on those yachts many a time during the summer, as I’m sure you’ve seen.” Mick has seen, yes. Never knew the names, though. “It’s become a dick-measuring contest.”

Mick nudges his stomach.

“To answer your question, they have everything to do with your surprise. I’m going to make them, and everyone else here, crash into each other.”

Mick’s heart starts to pound. His dilated pupils meet Len’s smirk.

“Nineteen seconds, Mick.”

Eagerly, the selkie maneuvers himself so he can have the best view possible.

Ten seconds.

“Are you ready?” a woman asks. Mick looks around—only to find Len staring at him expectantly.

He gives a violent start, because his mate has never done that before, not once in the years they’ve known each other.

Seeing this reaction, Len rolls his eyes. Continuing in that woman’s voice, “I can change my vocal register, Mick. How do you think I’ve lured so many heterosexual men? Five seconds.”

Four...three...Mick shakes his head and returns to watching the yachts...two...one...

Len’s muscles flex, wings curling in invitation. His voice echoes across the sea:

_“Every night in my dreams,_  
_I see you,_  
_I feel you;_  
_That is how I know you go on…”_

No.

No way.

_“Far across the distance_  
_and spaces between us,_  
_you have come to show you go on…”_

The music and voices die down on the yachts. Mick’s entire body shakes with suppressed laughter, because this can’t be real.

_“Near,_  
_Far,_  
_wherever you are,_  
_I believe that the heart does go on…_  
_once more,_  
_you open the door,_  
_and you’re here in my heart,_  
_and my heart will go on and on.”_

Mick dares to glance at Len. His mate is reclining back on his hands, face bright with a conniving grin. Meanwhile, the entirety of the boats have paused, sailboats falling over themselves as their riders are captivated by the siren’s call.

Stroking Mick’s smooth skin, Len continues:

_“Love can touch us one time,_  
_and last for a lifetime,_  
_and never let go ‘til we’re gone…”_

Captivated captains begin to turn their motors back on.

_“Love was when I loved you,_  
_one true time I hold to,_  
_in my life, we’ll always go on…”_

With adoring smiles, some steer towards the rocks, others to their fellows.

_“Near,_  
_Far,_  
_wherever you are,_  
_I believe that the heart does go on…_  
_Once_  
_more_  
_you open the door,_  
_and you’re here in my heart and_  
_my heart will go and on…”_

Holy shit, holy shit, holy _shit_. Fire’s erupting everywhere, and the yachts, the _yachts_ , they’re going to hit, they’re going to—

Len kisses Mick’s head. Then, in a bellowing crescendo:

_“YOU’RE HERE,_  
_there’s NO-OTHING I FEAR,_  
_AND I KNO-OW THAT MY HEART WILL_  
_GO O-O-O-N!”_

The yachts slam into each other as Len sings,

_“WE-E’LL STA-AY, forE-EVER THIS WA-AY,_  
_YOU ARE SA-AFE IN MY HEART AND_  
_MY HEART WILL GO ON A-AND O-O-O-O-N!”_

Mick nearly falls into the ocean he’s laughing so hard. He sheds his skin so he can yank Len into his arms and kiss him as fire engulfs the coast.

“My surprise is a bit anticlimactic compared to this,” he cackles, ducking under Len’s wing to chase another kiss.

“I hate surprises.”

“Not this one, buddy.”

Mick places his skin in Len’s lap. Len sucks in a sharp breath through his nose.

“You do a better job of lookin’ after it anyway,” the selkie says, turning back to the fire. “Shit Lenny, this is awesome!”

Len swallows, staring at the skin now clasped in his hands. When he makes sure Mick isn’t looking, he hugs it against his stomach.

(Mick sees anyway. He smiles.)

Together, they watch the world burn.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
